We walked back together, Denny being unusually silent and serious. I thought that even his audacious courage was a little dashed by the sight and the associations of that grim place, so I said:
‘Cheer up. If that other fellow got through the rocks, we can.’
‘Oh, hang the rocks!’ said Denny scornfully. ‘I wasn’t thinking of them.’
‘Then what are you so glum about?’
‘I was wondering,’ said Denny, freeing himself from my arm, ‘how Beatrice Hipgrave would get on with Euphrosyne.’
I looked at Denny. I tried to feel angry, or even, if I failed in that, to appear angry. But it was no use. Denny was imperturbable. I took his arm again.
‘Thanks, old man,’ said I. ‘I’ll remember.’
For when I considered the very emphatic assertions which I had made to Denny before we left England, I could not honestly deny that he was justified in his little reminder.